


Darkness, Silence and Solitude

by Mussimm



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, Just a little something for y'all, M/M, One Shot, Post-Apocalypse, Service Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21779914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mussimm/pseuds/Mussimm
Summary: Crowley hasn't been sleeping well. Aziraphale has a solution.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 738
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	Darkness, Silence and Solitude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dotty23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dotty23/gifts).

> A gift for the wonderful [dotty23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dotty23/pseuds/Dotty23) for convincing me to write [The Sandford Flower Show](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20577284%20rel=) and being my faithful beta through it.

Crowley was twitchy. He was always restless. Aziraphale had come to expect that while he relaxed in his comfortable armchair Crowley would never sit still. Glass of wine in one hand, gesticulating, twisting around, getting up to pace. It was their energy, a steady sun and an orbiting planet. He pitched around the room, making Aziraphale his centre. 

But today there was no great debate to flail about, indeed Crowley seemed to refuse to be drawn into any lengthy conversation. Instead, he sat on the couch, one elbow perched awkwardly on his knee, and twitched. At one point he stood, took two steps, winced, and sat down against, rearranging his tangle of limbs into something even more improbable. No amount of polite enquiry was shedding any light on the situation, only yielding demands for more wine and fewer questions. 

“Really, dear,” Aziraphale huffed. Crowley crossed and uncrossed his legs. Crossed them the other way. Aziraphale was on the verge of being offended. 

Crowley grimaced. “I should go. Head out.”

He made to stand and stopped halfway through the movement with a whimper, his face turning a strange shade of white. 

Aziraphale said nothing, just staring at him pointedly over his own wine glass. 

“It's  _ nothing _ ,” Crowley hissed, windmilling his right arm twice and trying to stand again. 

Aziraphale stared. 

The sun had long since set, the soft glow from the leadlight lamps the only light. They struck Crowley red and blue and grey as he winced his way around the couch, sloshing his wine liberally over the upholstery. 

“It's this bloody body,” Crowley said, reaching over his shoulder with one long hand to poke at his back. “It's...”

“You've injured yourself.” What little amusement Aziraphale had found left him quick as a thought. They wouldn't be getting replacement corporations if they damaged these ones. He set down his wine and moved to the couch beside Crowley, leaning back to see where he was poking. 

“Get off, angel,” Crowley said, although Aziraphale hadn't touched him. “It's a pinched nerve, I don't need you hovering around like a mother hen.”

“Just sit still, would you?”

“I'm not some invalid, I just slept on it wr– _ nnhh! _ ” Crowley dissolved into something between a yelp and a moan when Aziraphale dug his thumb into the spot he was trying to reach. 

Aziraphale stared at his fingers pressed into Crowley's jacket in the low light, his friend frozen under his hand, and was struck with the idea that something was very strange about it. Some mental dissonance clanged about in his head, a piece of a jigsaw puzzle turning this way and that but not slotting into place. His fingers against the quilted fabric, the lights red and blue and grey, Crowley's spine arched just so, as if he was trying to lean into the touch and away from it at once. 

He was warm. The thought clicked into place. Six thousand years his brain had supplied him with the knowledge that serpents were cold-blooded. He'd always imagined Crowley would be cool to the touch. And he was, in his snake form. And he must not have noticed in their glancing touches. And he must have not thought about it when they'd swapped bodies. 

Six thousand years and his thoughts of touching outweighed it actually happening so heavily he'd never just... He'd never...

“Is this alright?” he asked, his voice doing something strange in his throat. Even through the layers of fabric he could feel the inflamed tendon that had been troubling his friend. 

Crowley's shoulders were tense, his back rising and falling with short, shallow breaths. He nodded once. “Yeah.”

Aziraphale watched him carefully, easing himself into a more comfortable position on the couch and kneading into his back. He wasn't a professional by any means but he knew the spot, the one right where the shoulder blade met the wing, where all the tension was held. He rubbed in wide circles, keeping it light and tried not to think too hard about what he was doing. 

What was he doing? It was just... He hadn't meant... He'd only wanted to help! And now look at him. He wasn't so dense to think this sort of thing came without implications. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on his hand and ignored the breathy  _ ah _ sounds Crowley seemed to be making involuntarily. Ignored how warm he was. Crowley was. He was. 

“How did...” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “How did it happen?”

Crowley shook his head. “Tossing and turning. Thought if I-  _ ah - _ if I let my wings out it might...  _ ah... _ Turns out you can -  _ ah  _ \- sleep on them wrong. Oh, right there, right there, angel.”

It really was hot in the shop. Something wrong with the heating. Or maybe the wine was flushing him. Or maybe it was just sitting so close to Crowley who was radiating heat ( _ he's supposed to be cold-blooded! _ ) Aziraphale could feel a fine sheen a sweat building at the back of his neck. His clothes felt too tight. Crowley's hair smelled good. 

“Not... not sleeping, then? Not well?” Aziraphale licked his lips, trying to wet his mouth. 

“No.” The word was loaded, weighed down with all the things they should have been able to leave behind. Aziraphale knew. He knew. He knew the dark hours of the night when the humans were all asleep, even Soho felt quiet, the distant noises not enough to penetrate the muffling silence. He knew wondering what else was walking the streets, watching from above or below. He knew looking up from his book to find an empty shop, unable to shake the feeling that it wasn't empty. 

Things had been going well since the Apocalypse, and yet... and yet... It was only these nights, wine and warmth and company when he felt the spectre of heaven was banished. He might get a bit strange with it if he didn't have Crowley to be there with him. Affection bloomed in his chest and he shuffled closer, relaxing more comfortably. All those years of keeping his distance didn't matter compared to this. They had to be their own people, support each other, because no one else was going to do it. 

“Take your jacket off for me,” he murmured. 

Crowley hesitated, looking at him out of the corner of one amber eye. The moment hung in the air, then Crowley leaned forward, gingerly eased his jacket off, and leaned back toward Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale returned to his task with both hands, working his thumbs into the sore spots, squeezing around the nape of Crowley's neck, trying to work the tension out. Crowley leaned back into him, the expanse of his burning hot back a bare few inches away from his chest. The demon was moving with him, pliant to the touch, the thready moans now stronger, his breath coming quicker, eyes drifting shut. And he was beautiful. 

Maybe he had leaned forward, or maybe Crowley had leaned back, but Azirphale found himself with his nose buried in the fine red hair behind Crowley's ear, breathing in the human scent of him, laced with smoke. Crowley let out a particularly throaty groan, head lolling back, and Aziraphale pressed his lips to the line of his neck, closing his eyes to better drink in the smell of him.

“Show me your wings.” It was half an order, half a question, breathed into the tenderest spot under Crowley's jaw, the barest hint of sweat and aftershave against Aziraphale's lips. 

Crowley turned his face to look at him, questioning. He was dark-eyed and hazy, swaying into Aziraphale, eyes searching his face. Aziraphale kept his hands on Crowley's shoulders, grip firm against the twisted muscles, as if that made it alright, as if the one barrier had been the first domino and the others now had no choice but to follow. Aziraphale was too hot, his skin was too tight for him, his heart thumping too hard and his fingertips oversensitive. 

It was Crowley who closed the last inch, kissed him, their noses bumping together and the force of it swaying them to one side. Aziraphale let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, closing his eyes and bringing one hand to cup Crowley's face. There was a closeness to it, the two of them pressed together, hands on wrists and shoulders, the sudden collapse of six thousand years worth of distance. 

It was over in seconds. Aziraphale kept Crowley's face close to his own, the tips of their noses brushing, breath intermingling. He stroked his thumb across Crowley's jawline, trying to show him that he was safe. Aziraphale would take care of him even if they hadn't quite figured out how to say it aloud. 

“Show me your wings,” Aziraphale repeated, aching with tenderness for his friend, his sleepless, restless, hunted friend. 

There must have been something in his face because Crowley returned his aching smile, eyes crinkling with fondness, before he pulled back and began to ease his shirt over his head. Aziraphale helped him, trying not to strain his injured shoulder, wrapping his short fingers in the soft fabric and guiding it over Crowley's head. He watched the play of long muscles under golden skin, the divot of each rib as Crowley moved, the dimples by his spine. Beautiful. 

“Lie down, my dear,” he said, deciding the couch should be a chaise for this and making it comply with a gesture. He spread his demon out along the length of it, trailing down his spine with one flat hand. He was shaking. No,  _ they _ were shaking. His hands wouldn't cooperate, the need to touch, to kiss, was overwhelming him. 

Crowley rested his head on his crossed arms and released his wings with a sigh. They were beautiful, miles of silky black feathers draped over the floor of the bookshop. The right wing flinched and twitched, not sitting right. Some of the feathers sat wrong, the tufts of soft down by the joint sticking out where Crowley had worried them, trying to get at the hurt. 

Aziraphale set to work, straddling Crowley's hips, keeping his weight on his legs, he ran his fingertips through the fine feathers, working their natural oil back through them. He smoothed down the feathers, smoothed his fingers through the down, smoothed his palm along the injured muscle, gentling the strain on the joint. Crowley groaned again, the sound coming from deep in his chest, muffled into his forearms. How vulnerable his demon was for him, eyes closed, wings exposed. Had he ever shown this kind of trust to another creature? Aziraphale doubted it. 

With Aziraphale's hands buried in sensitive feathers of pitch dark wings, trying to straighten and ease and set it all right, Crowley whimpered into his arms, back tensing, hips rocking against the chaise. His whole shoulder flinched with the movement. 

“Hush, shhh,” Aziraphale moved back to his skin. “I need you to stay relaxed or you'll undo my work.”

“It feels... Angel...” Crowley moaned. 

_ Yes, it does _ , Aziraphale silently agreed, shifting his weight as if it might relieve some of the pressure that had settled under his skin. “I know, I know, just relax, just relax for me.”

Crowley took a trembling breath, spine bowing with it, then melted back into the couch. Aziraphale watched, watched the hollows of his ribs, the ridges of his shoulder blades, the deliberate sink of his spine, grounding him at every point. 

Aziraphale swallowed thickly, following the lines of his demon with his eyes then with hands so full of static he was sure they'd spark at the friction. Crowley's skin was soft, hot, the oil of his feathers easing Aziraphale's passage, massaging it deep into sore muscles, getting into his ribs where he'd been carrying the weight. 

Crowley gasped and moaned openly, shoulders and hips steadfastly staying put against the couch, shaking with the effort. Relief washed through Aziraphale, intense gratitude that it wasn't just him. He thought he might have died if he was in this alone, obsessively stroking his hands across skin and feathers, trying to find the whole shape of his demon under all the outer layers, pressure pooling in his fingertips and lips and thighs. He found the ridge where the longer feathers started to come in and dragged his hand through them, letting Crowley's rising voice guide him. 

“Angel,” Crowley gulped air in desperately, hips canting against the couch. “Angel, if you don't stop I'll...”

“You can,” Aziraphale said, watching from a distance as this stunning creature came apart in his hands. “If you like.”

“Not without you. Please, please,  _ ah _ , angel  _ please. _ ”

Aziraphale let up, moving his attentions back to the shoulder, keeping his hands working, kneading the muscle. “Easy, now. Tell me what you need.”

“I want...” Crowley tossed his head side to side, gasping, hips grinding down. Aziraphale let himself drop down, putting just the suggestion of weight on the squirming hips under him. Crowley cried out frantically and a groan escaped Aziraphale's chest, wanting so much and being wanted in return. “Fuck me. Please angel, fuck me, please, I need...”

“Shh, shhh.” Aziraphale pressed a hand between Crowley's wings, keeping him flat, urging him to relax again. “I've got you, my darling. You're injured, we have to be careful. Can you stay relaxed for me?”

“I will, I promise. If you'll just...” Crowley took two long, forced breaths, slumping back down, hands pressed against his face. 

Aziraphale looked down, seeing himself from a distance. He shouldn't be so calm, shouldn't be the one guiding them, but with Crowley so distressed it seemed he had no other option. He couldn't help but play against his own type if that's what Crowley needed from him. He'd do anything if Crowley needed him. 

So he found himself here, hands shaking but voice steady, miracling their clothes into a folded pile on one of the chairs, distantly aware of the hot skin on his inner thighs, the tip of his cock trailing along the curve of Crowley's arse, so hard he wasn't sure how he could stand it. He saw his own fingers, miracle slick, pressing into Crowley, his other hand smoothing down his back to keep him from tensing, his mouth whispered reassurances. The only thing he could still hear were Crowley's pleas, his cries, his frantic breathing, those were all still present, ripping down his spine, his whole world living and dying in those sounds. 

Aziraphale gave this task the same gentle care he had taken with shoulders and wings, moving slowly, crooking his fingers to find that spot that made Crowley wail underneath him,  _ not thinking _ about what he was about to do, how badly he needed it. If he let himself feel this for even a moment he'd be done for, he wouldn't be able to do what Crowley needed. But it accomplished his goal, enough of his careful preparation rendering his demon a boneless mess, melting into the upholstery. 

He shuffled back, slipping on knee between Crowley's thighs, marvelling again at how much trust he had earned. At what a privilege it was to see Crowley spread open, helpless and half delirious. “Spread your legs for me, my darling.”

Crowley did as asked and Aziraphale took him by the hips, guiding him ever so gently to his knees. He lined up his cock, pressing forward just far enough to make sure Crowley was ready for him, then took his hips with both hands again and pushed in. 

Sleepless, restless nights and the weight of his wings had been wearing on Aziraphale so long that he didn't realise how much he'd needed the closeness of another warm body until he had it. Pressing home, coming up flush against Crowley's bare skin, both of them trembling with the relief of it, everything hit him all at once. If Crowley had been the one to touch him first it would have been him all but weeping to be held, to be known, to tear apart their isolation. 

Aziraphale cried out, coming back to himself all in a rush. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the nape of Crowley's neck, and beginning to move. He pushed in again and again, the heat and the pressure undeniable, the helpless moans pulled from his chest met beat for beat by Crowley. He kept it slow, kept it gentle, kept his lover's injury in mind. Black wings draped across the floor, flexing forward with every thrust, the feathers catching the low light and shining emerald. 

“You are so beautiful,” Aziraphale murmured into Crowley's skin, punctuating the statement with a slow press forward, feeling the curve of that treasured shoulder blade under his cheek. “You're safe here.”

He lunged forward, one arm bracing himself, one hand finding Crowley's and holding tight, their fingers entwined. He stretched his demon out, bracing him, fucking into him slow and hard, nose buried in his neck and let himself be lost. It was unthinkable, so close and so warm and finally, finally nothing but them. Aziraphale chased his pleasure, mindlessly rutting, shameless and desperate. He cried Crowley's name into his neck, again, again, the demon tensing and tightening under him, coming with a strangled whine. 

Crowley panted against the couch, legs and wings twitching and Aziraphale let himself go. He crushed his eyes closed, felt it coming from his thighs, tightening in his gut, and it overtook him in long pulses, buried inside his demon. He let out a cry, hunching over further, squeezed Crowley's hand in his own and held tight. Just them, nothing else in the world. Just flame red hair and smoke and sweat and beautiful black wings. 

Aziraphale saw himself sit back, so carefully disentangling himself, easing back from his lover and noting with some pride the mess he'd made of him. He stumbled, jelly-legged to the floor, collapsing on his knees next to the couch. He knelt there, face inches from Crowley's, kissing his hands, his face, his lips. Crowley was so still and his face so slack that Aziraphale thought he might have drifted off to sleep. Then he smiled a devil's smile.

“Are you going to do that every time I have trouble sleeping?” Crowley asked, cracking one eye open. 

Aziraphale smiled at him fondly, pressing more kisses to his bony knuckles. “Let's not find out, shall we? Sleep here tonight.”

“Oh, I see how it is. Shag a bloke once and he wants you to stay for breakfast.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Hush, you old serpent, or I'll be forced to carry you upstairs.”

Crowley gave him a sleepy smile, the teasing edge softening. “You'll sleep as well?”

“Of course.” Aziraphale climbed to his feet with only a few false starts, his knees thoroughly objecting to the enterprise. He held out a hand and Crowley took it. 

He didn't end up carrying the demon, they walked with sleepy arms around each other, stumbling in the dark. There was no one else in the shop, not even in Aziraphale's imagination. And in the old, plush bed, under the eiderdown, heaven and hell couldn't see them tonight. Crowley draped himself over Aziraphale's chest and Aziraphale almost didn't realise he'd fallen asleep as they chattered. 

He closed his eyes, let the weight on his chest and the warmth of the eiderdown take up his senses, and the city didn't seem nearly so silent.

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me on [tumblr!](https://omgmussimm.tumblr.com/)


End file.
